Sonata
by Yessica-N
Summary: There are a lot of different ways to cope with your problems. Papyrus has his violin.
1. Verse 1

**Jup, I'm painfully aware of the fact that I do have multiple stories in dire need of an update (I'm looking at you Babysteps). But I got hit with Violinist!Papyrus headcanons... and this happened.**

 **It was supposed to be a quick drabble. It turned into a three-shot. I hate my muse sometimes...**

* * *

He keeps the violin in a wooden box somewhere in his closet.

Buried in the back, behind neatly stacked clothing he barely wears anymore and mismatched socks he has given up on pairing long ago, getting it out can be quite a hassle. Which is something he can use as an excuse when people ask him why he doesn't play more frequently.

But in truth, the instrument comes out a lot more often than they know. Papyrus just prefers it when nobody is there to hear.

* * *

When he gets nervous, panicked, jittery, he pulls it out. His hands tremble as he carefully cradles the smooth case, bare finger bones gliding over the polished wood with a soft scraping sound. Dark and seamless, like the violin itself.

He always takes of his gloves for this.

His head swims with thoughts, refusing to line up into any semblance of order. Were he in need of oxygen, he would be hyperventilating by now.

But when the clasps come undone, his tensed frame relaxes. Finding rosin in the Underground can be a challenge. Papyrus usually has to go as far as New Home to actually get some. He takes out the block, other hand cradling the bow gently, and he starts working.

The movements are slow, methodical, and they put his mind at ease. It is a rhythm he can get lost in. Just for the time being, he doesn't need to think about anything.

He doesn't need to think about his brother's vacant expression. About waking up to the exact same day countless times again. He doesn't need to think about meeting death or being the only one left alive.

He doesn't need to think about knives or flowers or timelines or dust-

Just the motion, up and down, up and down, up and down, running smoothly along the hairs.

By the time his hands are steady again, the work is done. Carefully, he replaces the bow in its appropriate place. He doesn't play then, but he knows the strings will be ready when he next needs them.

* * *

When he gets sad, depressed, melancholic, he pulls it out. He sits on his bed, putting the shoulder and chin rests into place first, before picking up a tune.

It doesn't even form into a full song. His hand is in perfect position, holding the strings accordingly to produce a single, clear note.

The sound fills the room, but Papyrus allows it to fully blossom, and to die out again, before he plays another. They come without thought, and he names them in the lingering silence between. Lets the pace pick up until the pauses become shorter and there's a constant stream of soft tones, barely a proper song.

It sounds just like he feels. Something fit to be played at a dusting ceremony.

But just as the notes are extracted from the instrument, hair scratching delicately over string, so too does he feel the negative emotions leave him, as if the music somehow pulls them from him.

It gives them a voice.

Where words fail Papyrus, the violin can compensate. And when he's done, he smiles, not remembering why he was feeling so down in the first place.

* * *

When he gets angry, upset, scared, he pulls it out. Hastily, strewing garments across the floor, case open and forgotten on the ground.

Papyrus plays fast, barely allowing the notes to form before he's snuffing them out again. More often then not, they weren't even in tune to begin with.

It's an ugly noise, scratching and grating. His angle is off, the pressure all wrong, his glissandos are slipping, his martelé comes out false. It makes his head ache, and drowns out all else.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is not healthy for the instrument. Surely he'll have time to regret his carelessness later, when he's smoothing a soft cloth over the worn wood. Observes the little dents and cracks. The way he has abused it, to produce such a horrible cacophony of tortured sounds.

But right now, there are no thoughts to spare for future remorse.

Right now, the racket swells and grows, fast-paced tempo steadily building to a head. But the notes sound clearer again. They take the form of a defined tremolo. He strikes the wood hard, col legno, and feels it reverberate all the way to his bones.

It sounds like music. Chaotic, passionate, all over the place. Much like the storm wreaking havoc in his skull.

But somehow also beautiful.

* * *

When he's truly desperate, the violin is not enough.

No melody in the world will muffle the voices in his head then. The insistent sound of his own failure.

 _They think you're stupid. They think you're ignorant. They think you're annoying._

Papyrus clenches the bow so hard, it might just snap clean through. Like the snapping of bones under the pressure of ruthless veins.

 _You can't protect them. You can't save them. You can't even save yourself._

The strings slide easily. Like a knife through butter. Or through a spine.

 _You're too weak. You're too oblivious. You're too naïve._

The sound keeps coming, but they are not chords. Just white noise.

 _Useless. Selfish. Forgettable._

Papyrus tries harder, but it's all in vain. Every tone just clogging the air, already heavy with inadequacy.

 _This will never stop. There is no end. Why do you still believe?_

 _It's better to just give up._

His eyes are clenched shut, everything hurts, and when his hands close around neck of the instrument he slams it against the wall.

Wood splinters everywhere, scratch against his bones, and even this is not enough to stop the pain.

When his sockets open, he's sitting among ruined pieces of dark wood and detached strings. He feels empty. The kind of void that even his music can't fill.

There is nobody in the Underground who knows how to repair a human violin.

For once, Papyrus is relieved when things are finally reset.

* * *

When he's joyful, content, at peace, the box remains in his closet. Happily tucked away in its shelter of abandoned clothing.

It is a backwards kind of logic, Papyrus realizes, but it works for him. There are plenty of other things he can do on good days.

In the end, the violin still comes out more often than not. But only when nobody is around to hear.

Just the way Papyrus prefers it.

* * *

 **Let me know what you think?**


	2. Verse 2

**Hahahaha, you thought I had forgotten all about this story, didn't you? Nope, I'm just the slowest writer in existence. Oh well. *jumps out of window in shame***

* * *

Undyne doesn't want people to hear her play either, but Papyrus still does sometimes.

His training isn't supposed to start for another 5 minutes, and while he's sure she won't mind him being a tad early, he doesn't feel it appropriate to impose on the captain of the royal guard's precious time.

Besides, Mettaton often talks about how one should always be fashionably late.

Papyrus doesn't really agree with that. Not being somewhere, when you're supposed to be there, just seems like bad conduct to him. He'd rather be exactly on time...

But being premature means he gets to stand outside Undyne's house and hear her perform, so if he leaves the house 15 minutes earlier than he strictly should, so be it.

Sans certainly doesn't notice.

Despite the sounds having to be carried through a wall first, Waterfall's caves make for oddly pleasing acoustics, notes bouncing of the damp rocks and echoing back in clear tones.

Some songs are familiar to him, and Papyrus softly hums along as she plays, fingers itching when he unconsciously envisions the correct finger placements on his violin.

Some songs are stranger to his ears, and he wonders if Undyne composed them herself. She doesn't seem like that type of person, but then again, people are just full of surprises and she's certainly a very talented pianist. Maybe he could just ask her?

At precisely the appointed time, Papyrus is knocking on his captain's door, feeling a slight regret as the beautiful music stops abruptly with a sudden false note before Undyne answers his call.

That lesson, she is uncharacteristically calm. Presumably, her piano and his violin serve a similar purpose then.

Papyrus decides he'll ask her some other day.

* * *

You know what really puts your view of a person into a new perspective? Seeing them die around umpteen times.

It doesn't really do, to tell yourself you'll save it for another day, only to realize this other day will never come. Because it's just the same days over and over again, and really, you can procrastinate pretty much everything in this fashion.

A never ending bucket list of things Papyrus still wants to do.

Maybe he will officially join the royal guard one day? Or take up professional acting? Tell Sans how miserable he is? Finally be happy?

Or maybe he'll just do all those things after the resets stop. Which is to say, never.

That's what he keeps telling himself, until one day he is sitting in an empty house, fingers brushing over the keys of a dusty piano that hasn't been played for weeks now, its owner spread across its surface.

And there is a king on the throne made of metal and fame, who watches idly by as his kingdom dies beneath him.

As they all die.

Papyrus tried playing his violin, but it has stopped helping ages ago.

He pushes down on white ivory, shudders at the feel of Undyne clinging to his bare fingers, and the notes are clean and beautiful, but he can't play.

He can't, because Undyne never showed him. Because he never asked.

He should have just asked.

* * *

The air smells of burned food and his scarf is stained with stray spatters of sauce, but he's smiling and Undyne is patting him on the back, telling him how much he has improved for what seems like the millionth time, when it slips out.

"I like your piano." He says, and she glances over at the instrument as if it's the first time she noticed its presence in her own living room.

Her face turns slightly red, but she's grinning like crazy still. "You do?" And maybe if he didn't know better he would think she sounds incredulous.

"Of course." He approaches it carefully, as if it would skitter away like a frightened animal, and Undyne is already bounding over and plopping herself down in the seat. "Do you play?"

"Well, duh." She cracks her knuckles loudly, and for once Papyrus doesn't mind. "Playing piano requires dexterity, speed and endurance. It's perfect training!"

It's the exact same thing she told him about cooking once, ages ago. But his smile doesn't falter when he clenches his hands in front of him. "Wowie! Can you show me?"

There is a second of hesitation, the inevitable pause when somebody asks you to share something so personal you're not sure words can describe it.

But then, Undyne is scooting over, posing her fingers over the keys dramatically. "Even better. Sit your boney ass down, nerd! We're having a music lesson."

* * *

The next day, he brings his violin with him to her house. Both her smile and her eyes get impossibly bigger when she sees the instrument, and of course there is no cooking that gets done that day.

The tunes flow together seamlessly, as if they have been playing in unison their entire life. Undyne goes fast and chaotic, and Papyrus moves to keep up with her, until her loud laughter is filling the room.

Then she will go slow and steady and he'll lead. He'll play something he wrote with her in mind several timelines ago, when her dust clung to his fingers still, and Undyne is gliding across the keys in a semblance of calm Papyrus didn't think possible for her.

And all the while, the two of them grin like idiots.

Papyrus now thinks it might be okay to play when you're happy too. But only when he doesn't have to do it alone.

* * *

Her fingers are trembling, and the notes are false. He tries to play along calmly, but Undyne can't carry a tune.

Not when her entire body is shaking with sobs, grief wrecking her.

They named the song after _her_. It is beautiful and subdued and tragic. Just like _she_ was.

But it sounds like sadness and death and the bottom of an abyss, the edge of which Papyrus has a lot of personal familiarity with also. The willful ending of your own life.

And when Undyne starts crying, Papyrus only plays louder.

He can't do anything. He failed again.

But at least he can drown out the sound of her tears.

* * *

The house is dark and empty, the remnants of one last cup of tea gone cold on the table.

He is sitting behind her piano again, feeling the dust against his palms when he plays.

This time, he knows how it's done.

He's not as good at it as Undyne was. He might never be.

But the song sounds like tired giggles and clashing magic and the two of them together and it helps him forget her absence.

Helps him forget the kingdom he has to run. The dead garden he has to return to. The lying brother that is waiting for him.

He can forget it all for a while, and just have his music.

* * *

 **A big thank you to all the lovely folk who left a comment! It makes me so happy.**


	3. Verse 3

There's a lot of different types of music on the surface.

There is loud music and subdued music. Fast and slow. All sorts of instrument blending together.

Papyrus is truly fascinated.

The first time he finds a music store, he drags a slightly flustered Alphys inside it, morning jog entirely forgotten.

There are pianos and guitars and trumpets and even some instruments Papyrus has never heard of, and he wonders what kind of sound they'll make as he walks by them.

Alphys tells him she plays a bit of flute herself, face now as red as a tomato and Papyrus smiles and reminds himself to invite her to his and Undyne's next music session.

Then there are the violins. Dark wood and perfectly varnished. Different sizes even. He's sure he can spent the rest of his life in here, but the shop closes around 5 pm and they have a jog to finish.

But he comes back some days later. And then the week after that. There are books there about reading sheet music, and after some deliberation, Papyrus finally decides to get one.

Sans sees him reading it at the kitchen table when he gets home.

A few weeks later, when he marks 100 days on the surface, Sans brings him something else too.

The page has writing above it in an overly-curly font, but Papyrus recognizes notes when he sees them, and sets about learning it at once.

He just about mastered the song, by the time the next reset hits.

* * *

He pushes against the stray petals with his feet.

Wind reaches them through the barrier, and they stir, blowing gently around him like in one of Alphys' romantic anime.

Alphys.

Papyrus puts his fingers in position and plays her song.

He wonders if it hurt when she hit the bottom.

The music flows over seamlessly into the one he composed for Undyne.

It's more rough, hectic. It's strong and determined just like she was.

And it melts away into soft mellow tones that die. Just like she did.

He plays something for the king and the queen. He plays something for his best friend.

He plays something for all of them.

The crown is heavy and the responsibilities heavier so he plays, plays for those that have fallen and those that are still standing and for the human too.

And when he's done with that, he plays for himself.

When he closes his eyes and tries real hard, he can almost feel the sun. Breath the fresh air.

He can almost delude himself that it's still then, standing in the backyard with his friends around him showing off the song Sans gave him.

He can almost hear their voices.

"Papyrus?"

He doesn't stop, hands moving of their own accord, but he looks at Sans and he sees.

He sees the recognition in his face, the shaking of his hands.

He sees the truth dawn upon his brother like a curtain has been lifted and he can see how it destroys him.

And still he is playing, the music filling the gap between them, feeling as if stopping now would mean death.

Papyrus knows.

Sans knows.

And now they _know_.

Sans pitches forward as if he's been struck and finally Papyrus stops, moves to grasp his brother's shoulders, praying he's not falling.

"I'm sorry." He says, because it's all that comes out, but even this doesn't sound like enough. Nothing will ever be enough again. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you."

Sans nods absently, words escaping him for the moment, entire frame tense.

They sit like that for a long time, before either of them feels ready to move again.

* * *

 **And that was the final chapter. I hope you enjoyed this little angsty threeshot! Maybe leave a comment if you did? ;3**

 **Find me on tumblr: Sharada-n**


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